


Nadir

by lanri



Series: Unseen [31]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Blindness, Depression, Gen, Hurt!Sam, Hurt/Comfort, Unseen 'verse, protective!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 04:39:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2415278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanri/pseuds/lanri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can’t be weak. It’s not in his nature. Pre-series; post-pilot; post-AHBL</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Initially based off a prompt from lillelouis @ fanfiction.net: More depressed-Sam  
> and then it grew to become three parts, so I made it separate.

Sam was strong. Strongest person Dean knew.

He knew all too well that it would have been easy for Sam to slip into apathy, to rely on Dean for everything—and Dean would’ve let him, too, he'd do anything for Sammy—but in the process lose everything that made him Sam.

Sam didn’t, though, and Dean was so proud.

And terrified.

“Dude, what did you do?”

“I just wanted some tea.”

“Okay, I’m going to resist making fun of you for making something so girly and just . . . keep your hand under that water, okay? I’m gonna grab some ice.” Dean tore out of the room and shoveled handfuls of ice from the ice machine into his shirt, using it as a kind of pouch.

“The water’s not very cold,” Sam informed him as Dean re-entered their motel room, sounding kinda subdued, pushing air out through his teeth in a thinly-veiled attempt to hide the pain.

“I know, idiot, that’s why I just got ice.” Dean dumped the melting ice into a bowl, his wet shirt slapping against his belly. “Here.” He filled it with water and twisted Sam’s hand so that the burn area was submerged. “Okay. Okay. You good?”

Sam shrugged tightly, and Dean blew out a breath. “Right. You still want your tea?”

“That’s okay.”

Dean hovered for a moment before remembering that Sam hated that. “I’m gonna go work on the Impala.” Dad had given her to him not long before Sam was blinded. Dean figured at the time that it had meant that pretty soon he would be able to take on minor hunts, him and Sam, but that had changed now. At least Dad had still let him keep the car.

“Sure.”

Dean left Sam standing with his hand in a bowl with melting ice cubes, feeling oddly guilty—like he was leaving when he shouldn’t.

* * *

Sam was pretty sure there was something wrong with him, aside from the obvious problem of being blind. Thirteen year-olds were teenagers. That was what everyone said when he told them his age.

Teenagers didn’t cry.

The worst part was, he didn’t even know why he was crying.

It wasn’t from the burn. Sam had been hurt far worse before, touching a hot kettle shouldn’t’ve bugged him at all.

Still, tears flowed down his cheeks, hot and wet.

Man, if Dean saw him like this . . . Sam swiped a hand across his face and breathed in, shuddering and deep. He’d been working so hard to be strong, be himself. If he let Dean help him too much, he would lose himself. He couldn’t . . . he had to be strong.

Sam pulled his hand from the ice water, ignoring the dull throb. He was still getting the hang of moving around, but thankfully managed to avoid braining himself as he made his way from the kitchenette to the main room. He needed to calm down. He had to be strong.

“Sammy?”

Sam nearly choked in terror at Dean finding him. Angling his body away from the doorway, he surreptitiously scrubbed at his face with his non-burned hand.

“Sam.” Dean’s voice was gentle, way too gentle. Sam didn’t need to be babied. He was strong.

“What is it, Dean?” Sam managed. There, his voice didn’t tremble at all.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he snapped. “Why aren’t you working on the car?”

“I thought you might wanna come outside. Hang out with me.”

“Not right now.”

Sam could feel the shifting in the air from Dean’s approach—he was learning how to tell people apart, and Dean was the easiest for him to sense in every way.

“Sammy, are you sure—“

“Dean, just leave me alone!” Sam couldn’t really escape, so he sat completely still in the hopes that Dean could take a hint.

“You need to let it out? Dude, for the past couple months you’ve been stoic as dad during a hunt. So c’mon. Let it out.”

“I don’t need to let it out, I’m just fine!”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am!” Sam realized that he was shouting, and clamped his mouth shut.

“Sammy, you’re just a teenager and you’ve been blinded. You’re not okay.”

Dean’s words were steadily ripping Sam apart, and Sam bit his lip in a desperate attempt to keep his scream reigned in.

“Let it go, Sammy.”

Rage instead of grief spilled over, and Sam let out an inarticulate yell, slamming his fist into the motel wall that he knew was a couple feet in front of him.

“Sam!” Dean was there, struggling to pull Sam’s arm away from the wall, and Sam turned on him, writhing and lashing out, crying and shouting for no reason. It was stupid. It was all so stupid and Sam just couldn’t do it, couldn’t live like this.

At some point, Sam came back into awareness to find himself completely wrapped up in Dean's arms, feeling completely gross from the tears and snot.

“We're okay, Sammy,” Dean promised, his voice coming right next to Sam’s ear. “You’ve been so strong, I’m so proud of you.”

“I don't feel strong,” Sam admitted quietly.

“You trust me, right?”

“Uh huh.”

“Then know that I'm right.”

Sam pressed his face into Dean’s shoulder and took a deep breath. “Okay, Dean.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dean was a carpe diem kind of a guy. Fish of the day or whatever. That thing that meant he just went for something and did it.

Unfortunately, that left him nothing when dealing with a grieving little brother.

When Mom had died, he had been too young to understand, really, aside from crying for her in the night. Even his Dad’s grief had been covered up by an obsessed exterior that Dean had never been able to crack.

And Sam was . . . Sam. The guy who bad things happened to, even though he never deserved them.

“Wanna listen to a movie?” Dean offered. “Promise, I won’t make up what’s going on instead of telling you what’s really on the screen.”

“No, thanks.” Sam listlessly lay on the other bed, eyelids covering his unseeing eyes.

“How about grabbing a drink?” Dean suggested.

“You can go, if you’d like.”

Dean sighed, “dude, you’re missing the whole point of spending time with you.”

That caught Sam’s attention, and his brother shifted slightly. “Um, but . . .”

“What, I can’t want to spend time with my little brother?” Dean tried to insert his grin into his voice. “C’mon, man, give me something. What do you like to do for fun now?”

Sam sat up, rubbing at the back of his neck and making his hair stick up and look ridiculous. Dean had to bite his tongue in order to keep himself from saying anything.

“I . . . do you have the cards?”

“Course I do, what do you take me for?”

The hint of a smile appeared, which Dean took for a victory. “A pack rat, I guess.”

“Dude, you’re so weird,” Dean returned happily, pulling out the cards they had hand made, years ago.

“You haven’t marked them, have you?” Sam asked suspiciously as Dean shuffled.

“I’m wounded, Sammy,” Dean whined.

“It’s Sam. And that’s not a no.” Sam accepted his cards, keeping the Braille side of them away from Dean.

“Not a yes, either,” Dean parried. “Got any fours?”

“Go fish.”

And Dean kept Sammy going another day.

* * *

It had been a long time since Sam had wondered what a gun would taste like.

Every part of his soul knew it was wrong, but somehow Sam couldn’t help but think about it. He had, when he had first been blinded, come close several times, to giving up.

The fact of the matter remained, though, that it was giving up. That didn’t sit well, with Sam. He wasn’t the type to give up.

And beyond that, though Sam wasn’t sure what he believed, he was pretty certain that demons had to come from hell. So therefore, angels must be in heaven. And suicide wasn’t exactly a surefire way to skip past hell.

But still. What was he, now that he had lost Jess? No future, just another tragedy that couldn’t be explained. A hopeless mission to get the thing that did it. That was it.

Sam carefully slid the gun under his pillow as he heard the lock being messed with. Probably Dean.

Well, there was one reason to keep going right there. Sam thought about keeping a tally, but figured it wouldn’t go past counting on his fingers.

“Heyo. Well, the coordinates Dad gave us are in the middle of nowhere. People disappearing, though. Think I’ll call up some old friends and get them to handle it.”

Sam frowned. “We can’t do it?”

“Dude, it’s the forest. No way I’m camping through there. Darn it, I forgot to grab lunch. I’ll be back in a bit, man, okay?”

Sam heard the underlying words. Sam couldn’t go in the forest, therefore they wouldn’t.

Just another way he was useless. And Sam kept thinking about the gun under his pillow.

Sam stood decisively, sticking the gun into his jeans and grabbing his cane.

* * *

Dean wasn’t sure why, but he was terrified of leaving Sam alone for too long. It wasn’t like he thought Sam would . . . well, do anything drastic, but his little brother wasn’t in a good place. And being stuck with big brother again, dreams shattered and rudderless . . . well, no one would do well with circumstances like that. At some point, Dean would need to come up with a plan, but for now, he was just making sure Sam got through each day and for that matter, each night, what with the nightmares and tears that were now expected.

Sometimes taking care of Sam meant leaving him to get food, however. And when a run for lunch was lengthened by a traffic accident, Dean found his stomach clenching uneasily.

By the time he got back to the room, Dean was shoving down the urgent part of him that wanted to break down the door. Instead, he just opened it noisily. Sam never turned on the lights and always kept the blinds closed, so the dark of the room was normal.

Sam not in it, wasn’t.

“Sammy?” Dean called out urgently, checking the bathroom and closet unnecessarily. “Hey man, not cool.”

But Sam was gone.

* * *

Sam carefully opened the door, hearing the ringing bell at his entrance. “Hello?” he tried.

“How may we help you, sir?”

“Sorry, is this the, uh, music store?”

“Yes sir, I am the owner. What is it you’re looking for?”

Sam rubbed his neck uncomfortably. “I just lost my guitar in a fire. Do you have any, well, cheap ones?”

“We have some very nice used guitars. Acoustic or electric?”

“Acoustic, please.”

“Here, try this one.”

Sam set aside his cane and skimmed his fingers across the strings, smiling his pleasure at the feel of the instrument.

“I don’t mean to intrude,” the owner murmured, “but did you, well, lose everything in the fire?”

Sam stiffened, bowing his head. “Everything I held dear,” he whispered.

“Look, it’s not out of pity, son. I just want you to have the guitar. Lord knows it’s difficult to start again. And for someone your age . . . Take it with my blessings.”

Sam felt tears start to his eyes. “Sir, I can’t . . .”

“No, I insist.” The guitar was pried out of his hands, and Sam heard it being set into a case. “Take comfort from the music. It’s how I get by.”

“Thank you.”

“Not at all.” Sam felt himself being guided to the door. “You gonna make it home okay?”

Sam nodded dumbly.

The door shut, and the next thing he knew, he was suddenly in his brother’s embrace.

“You stupid idiot! I’m about to punch you in the face. You go off, don’t even leave a friggin’ note, and are just wandering the streets for no reason? I swear, if you ever do this again I am tying you up and throwing you in the trunk.”

“Sorry, Dean,” Sam apologized humbly. After three years, he had forgotten that he was supposed to leave notes.

“Yeah, you’re sorry. And lunch’ll be cold, now.” Dean’s tirade stopped. “Wait, what’s that?”

Sam hefted the guitar case, allowing a small smile to cross his lips. “Guitar. Owner gave it to me for free.”

“Right. But I mean, as long as you’ve got a guitar . . .”

“Yeah. Feel like singing?”

Dean laughed, a sound Sam couldn’t quite make yet, but he was hoping he would be able to soon. “No thank you, little brother. Not today.”


	3. Chapter 3

There was a stiffness in Sam’s demeanor that Dean couldn’t read.

“Look, things have been crazy,” he started softly, “how ‘bout we snag us one of Bobby’s old hunting cabins and have ourselves a little break.”

“A break from knowing you’re going to Hell?” Sam’s smile was bitter and small.

Dean swallowed. “If that’s the way you wanna put it, then fine.”

“Fine,” Sam echoed. Dean bit his lip and pressed down on the accelerator.

By the time they had reached the cabin, Sam had fallen asleep. Loathe to wake him, Dean eased the Impala to a stop, for a moment sitting and watching Sam. In some ways, after Sam’s . . . well, after Dean’s deal, it seemed like Sam had aged five years in a few days.

“Sammy,” he murmured. “We’re here.”

Even the way Sam woke up was tinged with exhaustion and terror, a sharp jolt upwards with his hands in front, warding off danger.

“Where’s here?”

“Cabin.”

Sam frowned, taking off his sun glasses, white eyes gleaming from the glare of the headlights bouncing against the window panes. “I thought you were joking.”

“I wasn’t.”

Sam’s scowl deepened. “The demon’s still out there. We can’t just hide away, Dean.”

Dean knew for a fact that the best way to ensure his brother’s compliance was to make it about himself. “Dude. After what happened in the graveyard and . . . everything, I need a break. I can’t drive 24/7, and we both know your back is bothering you. Just a short one, okay?”

Sam’s face underwent expressive acrobatics. “Fine,” he conceded. “But only for the weekend.”

“Deal, Sammy.” Dean went for the bags, grin on his face. Sam was a little more reserved as he got out of the car, carefully stretching out his limbs and cane, feeling the territory.

“Which cabin is this, again?” he checked.

Dean rattled off the description, which was pretty standard for all of Bobby’s safe houses—weathered exterior, woods creeping in close, shotgun hidden behind the door.

And, so that Sam could figure which one this was, he mentioned the carved duck Sam had once made in shop class.

Sam nodded and began moving inside, movements stiff because of the injuries he had sustained from Jake.

Dean followed, hovering in order to make sure that Sam didn’t fall.

“Do we need groceries?”

“Yeah, I’ll go out and get some after we’re settled,” Dean murmured absently.

“By which you mean getting me settled,” Sam muttered. He hadn’t complained so much about Dean taking care of him in years, and it burned a little.

“Well fine, I’ll leave now,” he said shortly, dropping the bags at the threshold.

He left Sam looking lost in the dark cabin.

* * *

Sam could remember the cabin well.

He could also remember the outdoors, and slowly maneuvered out of the rusty back door, and into the forest. The forest was alive with sounds—birds, crickets, strange rustlings, but Sam didn’t allow them to distract him from following the overgrown path.

By the time he had reached the top, Sam was panting from exertion. It was, however, just as he remembered it. Large granite boulders, hanging over a steep drop. Sam stepped right to the edge, feeling the breeze coming up from below.

He could just fall. Fall and pretend that Dean would be fine, that Dean wasn’t going to hell for him. That maybe, just maybe, he could stop having to fight so much.

He had died.

He had killed Jake.

Dean was going to die for him.

He was so tired.

Sam wasn’t sure how long he stood there, feeling the thrill of danger without the terror from a hunt.

“Sam!”

He listened dreamily to his brother’s voice. He could jump, now. Maybe then Dean would be safe. Dean would be happier without him, right?

“Sammy, I need you to listen to me. Hey, c’mon, move away from the edge.”

“Dean?” Sam asked.

“Yeah.” Dean’s voice was a little closer.

“I can feel the wind.”

“That right? Well, it’s a bit cold, bro. I bought hot chocolate. Why don’t you step this way, huh?”

“I like it,” Sam admitted.

“The cold? Dude, you’re so weird. Come with me, Sam.” Dean’s voice shook on the last word.

Sam let his left foot go forward a bit, feeling the edge of the boulder dropping away from under his foot.

The ground crunched under Dean’s footsteps as he drew closer.

“Sammy, please. Not like this.”

“You can’t die," Sam mumbled. “I just . . .”

Dean’s voice was a desperate plea. “Don’t leave me, Sam. Don’t leave me alone.”

Sam took a step backwards, and Dean’s hand fell on his arm in a painfully tight grip. His brother cursed, drawing him further away from Sam’s freedom.

“Do you want to die?” Dean demanded, dragging Sam down the trails roughly.

The truth was on the tip of Sam’s tongue, but he bit it back at the last second. “No. I needed to feel free.”

“Feel free?” Dean’s voice was trembling with fear and disbelief. “Well, can you do that next time not on a fifty foot cliff?”

Sam nodded accommodatingly, still lost in his own thoughts and emotions.

Dean’s voice continued on, and Sam tried to listen, but he couldn’t focus enough on the words to make out what he was saying, just the emotions; fear, anger, some kind of affection.

Why he would feel affection was sometimes beyond Sam’s comprehension.

He was herded inside, Dean always keeping a hand on him. A cup was pressed into his hand, a muttered “hot cocoa,” as an explanation.

Sam sipped at it carefully, feeling the remaining dregs of adrenaline from his—well, from the cliff—drain away.

“Sam, what are we doing, here?”

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. One advantage to being blind was that he did not have to avoid Dean’s thorough examination, though he could practically feel Dean's eyes raking him.

“Sam . . . I know things are bad. You just have to promise me to hang on, okay?”

Sam could never deny his brother anything. “Alright, Dean. Promise.”

A calloused hand brushed his cheek. “We’ll make it through.”

Sam didn’t really agree, but he nodded anyway. If it would make Dean happy, then he would do it. He would do anything.


End file.
